


the_dead_d0nt_dr3am.txt

by martz



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8164459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martz/pseuds/martz
Summary: Elliot doesn't remember falling asleep, but he fell asleep. When he wakes up, Tyrell is here, standing straight in expensive clothes, jaw clenched, eyes cold, mask on. It feels odd, seeing the mask, now that he's seen the glitches.





	

**Author's Note:**

> One year ago, I wrote a Mr. Robot fic and said it probably wouldn't happen again. What can I say, I'm weak.

Blood is running out of his body. _It's real_ , the hole in his stomach says – screams. _It's real, it's real, it's real_.

 _« Helvete jävlas fan_ , » he hears, the voice weepy, the breath scattered. «  _Jag är ledsen, jag är så ledsen,_ I'm so sorry, _snälla förlåt mig, jag älskar dig –_ »

And then he falls asleep.

 

*

 

Angela is there when he wakes up. That, or he's dead – but life after death isn't real, and that condition doesn't allow hallucinations. He comes to that conclusion later, though, after a few minutes, when he can bring himself to realizing what happened. His head hurts. It's blurry.

« Elliot, » Angela says, her voice soft. « You're awake. » He tries to lift himself up on his arms, but it hurts. There's a stain of blood reddening the white bandage on his somach, a reminder of what happened. Not that he needs a reminder – for once, for fucking once, he remembers. « Don't move, » Angela says. « You need to rest. » And he's sill on his forearms, staring at her, and she says, « Please, » so Elliot goes back to lying down, and he doesnt move.

Angela is holding his hand, he notes – he hadn't noticed that before. It's fine. Contact with Angela is fine, has become fine. He's learned to accept the touch. When they were kids, they would play pretend – pretend to be movie characters, pretend to meet in other ways that _hey, your dad died, cool, my mum too_ , pretend to be ok. Angela would push him around, fight him for fun, and Elliot would hold back the shivers and the tears that usually came when something similar happened to him – until he couldn't anymore. He broke down in front of her one day, when they were playing _Back to the Future_ , because of a friendly but a little bit too strong pat on the shoulder. Elliot cried, and she asked what was wrong, _please, Elliot, tell me,_ but he wouldn't, _no, can't tell you, can't tell you_. She became more careful, from that moment. The touches became exclusively gentle ones, careful not to pull a trigger, and Elliot learned that Angela's hands wouldn't hurt him.

It's weird thinking about them being kids when she's sitting there in her perfect suit and he's laying down, his body wounded and his mind rotting. Angela used to have dirt under her fingernails, dead leaves in her blonde hair and mud stains on the hem of her pants – they always seemed to manage to find the dirtiest places to play their games despite living in the city. Now her nails are manicured, not a single lock comes out of her perfect ponytail, and her expensive white shirt is clean. She's changed a lot more than he did – he's kind of the same as he was, Elliot.

Angela is holding his hand, and he's holding back, and it could be fine, like that. It's so very far from fine.

« I'm so sorry, Elliot, » she says. « I'm so, so sorry. »

_Yeah. I'm sorry too._

He falls asleep again.

 

*

 

He dreams. He knows it's a dream, somehow, because he's standing in that park that he knows for sure was destroyed ages ago. He used to come there with his father and Darlene, when they were kids. Sometimes, just Elliot and his dad. Later, Elliot and Darlene – there weren't much options left. Then his dad died, and the park disappeared.

Mr. Robot's there, too. Elliot can't be surprised. That's where he lives – Elliot's head. That's his nest, his kingdom.

« Hey, kiddo, » he says. Elliot expected to want to punch him in the face, but he's too tired for that. Not from the bullet hole in his guts, even if he still feels it stinging – he's tired from the lies. Mr. Robot stole his energy when he stole his trust. « How you doin'? »

« Pretty fucking terrible, » Elliot says. « Thanks for asking. Asshole. »

Mr. Robot sighs. « I'm sorry. » He takes his pack of cigarette, holding it out to Elliot. Elliot doesn't move an inch.

« No, you're not. »

Another sigh. Mr. Robot takes a cig for himself, lights it up. « Told you. I had to. I couldn't let anyone get in the plan. »

« Did you tell him not to shot me, but keep me alive? Or did he fail killing me? »

« Of course I told him not to kill you, Elliot. »

« Then why did you disappear? »

He doesn't answer to that.

Fucking liar.

 

*

 

Angela's there again. She's wearing the same clothes – same suit – but her hair is loose on her shoulders. She still doesn't look like the little Angela, but a little bit more like the before-E-Corp Angela. The Angela that sometimes came over and smoked weed with him, the Angela that would tell him about how much she would love to have a little dog, the Angela that found a way to get him a job at Allsafe – and _fuck_ , it all seems so far.

He coughs, and the wound hurts. Not enough, he notes – is he on morphine? Shit.

« Elliot, » Angela says, too soft again, like she's gonna break him with words.

And he wants to say something, ask something. His head is blurry again, and he doesn't know anymore because the questions are melting into each other and he's tired, tired, _tired –_ « Why are you there? » It's what comes the most easily to his mind. Maybe not the most important question, but maybe one he can get an answer from.

Angela sighs. Not an annoyed, pissed off sigh like Mr. Robot's. Hers says _sorry I let this happen, sorry I didn't take care of you, sorry I couldn't protect you of yourself._ Hers says _sorry, sorry, sorry._ « They – fuck, » she says. She cried, earlier. She tried to wipe off the make-up that ran down her face, but there's still a faded black stripe staining one of her cheeks. Barely visible – a miracle he even sees it. « They told me this was gonna happen. »

« Who? » Elliot doesn't recognize his own voice, but at least, it's _his._

« The Dark Army. » She looks like she might cry again, and Elliot doesn't know if it's a good thing or not, because he hates seeing her sad but there's relief in seeing that she's still able to take off that mask, still able to feel. « Elliot, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to – » The end of her sentences stays inside, somewhere behind her brain and her mouth. Elliot can't blame her. He does that all the time.

« What happened? » He asks.

She tucks her hair behind her ear. The skin is red on her wrist, probably is behind her sleeve, too. She's been scratching her arm, like she did when she was little and adults would ask her about her mom, or tell her how sorry they were. « You don't remember? » And he does, he does, but he needs to be sure. He needs to hear it from her, and he only hopes she's not in his head too, but he can't prove that. He can't even prove the hole in his stomach is real, can't even trust his senses. « You tried to stop the hack. You had said you would, before, apparently – you had said he – Tyrell had to stop you if you did. You knew you would. He stopped you – shot you. »

 _It happened_. _It's real._ _It's real. It's real.  
_

_Is it real?_

« They told me he was gonna call. They knew this was going to happen. You – _told_ them. They sent some medical help – they already had it there, I think. Everything was in your plan. » _His plan, not my plan, his plan._ « Did... _he_ do that? »

If only she could see him. Him, standing behind her, leaning against the dirty wall of this dirty place, lighting up another cigarette, smoking and smoking everytime he isn't talking, and even when he is, throwing gazes at Elliot and everyone else. He isn't talking, right now. Elliot might shout if he does, and he doesn't want that right now. Crazy, not stupid - he's got more interest in keeping Elliot calm. Elliot knows it, because he is him, even though this doesn't apply in all situations. It would be so easy, if it did. « Yeah, » he says.

Mr. Robot looks at him like he was dying – is he? « You're not dying, » he says.  _Shut up_ , Elliot thinks - doesn't say it out loud - Mr. Robot shuts up. He looks sorry, and Elliot's about to throw up. He doesn't.

« I'm sorry, » Angela says. Everyone is sorry. « I didn't want this to happen. »

She's still holding his hand, but his fingers are cold. « Yeah, me neither. » And Angela bites her lip.

When they were younger, Darlene insisted on showing Angela this fucking terrible horror movie. Darlene and Elliot had seen it a million times already, not even knowing why. It was playing one night, very late, when they were looking for something obscene to pass the time. There was this old scary movie marathon on the cable, and _The Careful Massacre of the Bourgeoisie_ seemed like a fun name. Somehow, Darlene managed to find the cassette and gifted it to Elliot for his fifteen birthday. Convincing Angela had taken a long time, because she was scared she wasn't gonna sleep after that – that isn't what she said, only said _guys, I don't want to watch this, it looks so bad,_ but coming from her, that was the same thing. That night, they had came to Angela's, because their mom was always mean when they invited people over. Darlene's outfit was weirdly matching the cover of the casset tape she was holding ; oversized black metal band t-shirt, fishnets and combat boots, she looked like the horror movie type of girl. Angela spent the whole movie repeating stuff about how terribly done it was, and fidgeting with her fingers, and biting her lip, until Darlene got to the bathroom and came back silently, making sure Angela wouldn't hear her, before shouting in her hears, and Angela almost _cried_.

Angela bites her lip.

« I don't think he knows about that, you know, » she says. « Tyrell, I mean. About you, and – your dad. » _He's not my dad._ « It took a while for us – me, Darlene, to figure it out, and we know you better, and I don't think he – » Bites her lip, bites her lip. « I don't think he would have done that, knowing that it wasn't _you_ that told him to do it. »

She's probably right about that. But the worse thing is Elliot wouldn't blame him anyway. He has a look behind Angela. Mr. Robot doesn't say a word. « Is he there? » Elliot asks.

Angela nods. « Yes. » And so many questions are left – _what's going to happen now, did people die, are they going to, are you ok._ « I told him you were awake. He's – relieved. »

And Elliot can't blame him, no. « Can I see him? » he asks, and Angela lifts her eyebrows. « I need to make sure he's real. » And he _can't_ make sure, no, can't be sure of anything. Can't trust his mind, can't trust his senses ; he feels Mr. Robot's hands on his shoulders everytime he touches him, he can smells the smoke of every single cigarette.

But Elliot needs this, he needs this. And Angela nods. « I'm gonna bring you something to eat, and then I'll talk to him, ok? »

Elliot nods, and Angela leaves the room. Morphine, or whatever they gave him makes him weak. He's asleep before Angela comes back.

 

*

 

He dreams about Darlene. She looks the age she's now, but with something of her younger self – short, black nails, dark clothes only, and the fishnets. Her face is covered in paint, a skull. She had done that one night they were both invited at some Halloween party, when they were in highschool. She's laying on the couch, in his appartment, trying to light up a joint with a lighter whose flame won't go out. The place almost feels like the park, like it was destroyed a long, long time ago, to become a distant memory in some corner of his mind. And someday, it will be ; someday, very soon maybe, anything won't be real anymore, if something still is.

« Elliot, where are you? » Darlene asks, frowning under the black and white make-up. Her joint is finally lit, hanging between her fingers, close to her painted nails. Black painted nails.

« Dead, » he says, and he doesn't know why.

Darlene laughs at his face. She looks like a scary movie. « You're not dead, dumbass. » Black painted nails. Black painted hands. Black painted teeth. She's all covered up now, her skin shiny and gross like oil, except for the white on her face ; the skull, laughing. « You're not dead, » she says. « The dead don't dream. »

 

*

 

Angela comes back with food that tastes like plastic and a little bottle of water. He empties it all.

She asks him about his dreams. He doesn't tell her.

 

*

 

Elliot doesn't remember falling asleep, but he fell asleep. When he wakes up, Tyrell is here, standing straight in expensive clothes, jaw clenched, eyes cold, mask on. He looks like he did when they first met, like he did when he offered him that job, like he did when he was watching at the blood pouring out of his body, before Elliot was half-unconscious and Tyrell was crying – or maybe that was a dream, too. It feels odd, seeing the mask, now that he's seen the glitches.

He doesn't say a thing, Elliot. Tyrell doesn't notice he's awake, his eyes – cold, blue eyes – staring at the window, trying to break it.

The wound is stinging, again. It always hurt a little bit after he wakes up, not immediately. _It's real_ , it tells him, but Elliot isn't sure he believes it.

« You're real, » he says anyway, and Tyrell looks at him, his eyes bare.

The mask glitches, again, not that Elliot knows what that really means. It just scratches that part of his mind again, tells him Tyrell is human, _human_ , reminds him of the few, few times he's seen the guy vulnerable, but it's more of a feeling that a real memory. Mr. Robot allows him the sense of it, but he can't have the actual thing. And it's almost there, almost there – if it comes a little bit closer, he could touch it, and feel, and remember, and it would be real _._ « How many times do I have to tell you it _is,_ kiddo? » Mr. Robot says. He's there again. Never gives a warning, never tells when he leaves or comes back. Elliot can smell cigarette. « He's real, it's real, everything is fucking real. Thought a bullet in your stomach would give a hint. » _Shut up, shut up, shut up_.

« Elliot, » Tyrell says in an attempt to be firm, formal, cold, but _his eyes are bare_ , and Elliot can see, now.

« You're real, » Elliot says, again. « You're real. »

Tyrell closes his eyes. He looks sick. He huffs, a dead laugh. « Yes, » he says.

Elliot closes his eyes, too.

That should be enough for now.

 

*

 

Tyrell takes the chair at the end of the room, ten feet away from the bed. He didn't try to get close, like he always does – touching Elliot's shoulders, rubbing his arms, his whispers landing on his skin, _look, I'm here, I'm close, look at me, look_.

« Angela told me, » Tyrell says. « About your condition. » He thought about every word before speaking. Rehearsed everything in his head. Control, assurance. That's how Tyrell works his mask, that's the make-up he puts on ; the man of the situation, the one who always does what's necessary. But it glitches, again, and Elliot can't really believe that anymore. Not when he knows the sound he makes when he sobs.

Elliot doesn't say a thing. Tyrell is fidgeting with his fingers, his blue tie is lose. The mask is slipping.

Elliot doesn't say a thing.

And Tyrell cries.

« I'm sorry, » he says. « Elliot, I'm so, so sorry, I – » Tyrell isn't of those who can be read by hacking him. He's way too smart to expose himself online, publicly or privately, and Elliot's pretty sure he doesn't allow himself to open up IRL either. But he is, now, because he decided it or because he can't help it, but he is, and he's crying, and Elliot _knows_ he has seen him cry before but doesn't remember. Again, it's what Mr. Robot allows him to know. He doesn't allow him to know why Tyrell is cracking up in front of him, destroying all the walls he's built. « I didn't want to shoot you, » Tyrell says. « But you – not _you_ but, you told me to and I just wanted to – » _do what's necessary_. He's the man of the situation, the one who _always_ does what's necessary. « I'm in love with you, you know that? I love you so much – » And Tyrell cries, cries, cries.

Elliot closes his eyes, so tight he sees colors. He didn't realize he was crying too. He doesn't know why.

He cries.

 

*

 

He dreams about Angela. Her hair is untied, falling on her shoulders and her blue dress like ocean waves. There's Qwerty, too, next to her, out of the water. He's bigger, and he's flying.

Balloons – pink, purple, white – are tied to Angela's wrist, and it seems like she could almost fly too, like her ballerinas could detach themselves from the ground, and she'd be gone, gone, gone. Elliot is still wearing the black hoodie, the hole that the bullet carved in the pocket and in his flesh bleeding, red stains splashing on the ground. He's inappropriate in a place that smells like birthday cake and flowers. « You're bleeding, » Angela says, her tone calm, assured, soft. Angela's dress is her prom dress, he notes. He remembers because he took a picture with her date – her dad was working, that night. She asked him to come to the prom with her in the first place. Knew he'd said no. Probably already had someone to go with – the guy wouldn't stop making comments on how good Angela's ass looked in that dress, how _sexy_ and _fuckable_ she was, and Angela would smile nervously and say nothing. He had told Elliot he was just jealous when he had told him to stop making her uncomfortable. He wasn't. The guy was a moron. Period. He didn't tell him that, though ; Angela would have been upset. He took the picture and left Angela's house, hoping nothing bad would happen to her, cursing himself for not slapping the guy in the face. He came back home for dinner, and everything he put in his mouth tasted like vomit.

« Yeah, » Elliot says. And then « I'm sorry I didn't slap him in the face. »

Angela laughs. « What are you talking about, Elliot? »

He looks around, and the sky is pink. He looks down, and the ground is red. Qwerty approaches him, smells the pool of blood of the floor, like a dog, but he's a fish, and he flies.

« Can you talk? » Elliot asks him.

He doesn't answer. Angela does. « He's a fish. Why would he talk? »

« I don't know. He's flying. »

Angela points at the blood. The balloons move along with her arm. « You're bleeding. »

« I'm dying, » Elliot says. « I'm dead, » he says.

She smiles, and it's soft, warm. She's an angel, Angela. « You're not dead, Elliot, » she says. « The dead don't dream. »

And then, she's gone.

 

*

 

« You can't love me, » Elliot says.

Tyrell doesn't need words to ask questions.His eyes are bare, still wet, and longing. « Why do you say that? »

Elliot's throat tightens. The words don't want to come out, but he forces them anyway. « Because you only know him. »

 

*

 

Tyrell helps him get to the bathroom when he asks him to. He only touches him because it's necessary, and again, it's different that all he's ever done with Elliot before – Elliot doesn't know, doesn't understand.

Meds or not, the wound stitches, that being because he's standing up and trying to piss or because he needs some more pills. Maybe too much time has passed, maybe everytime he closes his eyes, days pass – but then Angela, or Tyrell, are always here. Time is a concept. Maybe it's just hours, or minutes, or seconds. He didn't have to go to the bathroom before now, after all. Maybe he doesn't even sleep and everything that's been happening since he presumably woke up is just one big hallucination, maybe he's just awake and seeing things, not like he wasn't used to that.

He's probably dead, anyway. He's dead, and the world he's not a part of anymore is burning because of him. This world he wanted to change, this world he wanted to save. It's dead. Because of him. It's all his fault. _You did this to yourself, Elliot_.

He didn't plan throwing up, but he throws up. His throat is raw and acid, the wound _burns_ and feels like it's gonna bleed again. He tries not to scream, bites his hand. It gonna leave a mark.

Tyrell gets him back into bed. Only necessary touches, again. « I'm gonna get you some water and something to eat, » Tyrell says. When he comes back, he has a bottle and a sandwich in one hand and pills in the other. « They said you needed to take some. »

Elliot sighs. It hurts more and more every second. « Yeah, » he says. « I figured. » Their fingers brush when Tyrell hands him the water and the painkillers, and Elliot wants to cry. He swallows the pills, swallow down his tears, but Tyrell's eyes are still on him and they tell him things that makes him want to throw up again. Things like _you're precious_ and _you're a treasure_ and _I love you,_ things that Elliot can't hear or see right now.

Tears come, eventually. He blames it on the injury, on the lack of painkillers. He blames it on Mr. Robot, because everything is his fucking fault. He blames it on himself, because he should never created him anyway. He would probably rewind his whole life, if he could turn back time, but that wouldn't change anything ; he couldn't stop his dad from working at Evil Corp and dying, couldn't make his mom a good one, couldn't protect Darlene from the horrors that would come in her life. But he could cancel the existence of Mr. Robot, make him disappear. He wouldn't even happen. Elliot could keep going on his shitty life, running on morphine and wanting to die every single day, but everything would be back to normal. Fsociety would never have existed, maybe Shayla could even still be alive, and he wouldn't have been shot in the guts. « You shot me, » he says. His voice is weak, eyes barely open, lashes wet. Tyrell took his hand, at some point ; the touch is careful, featherly fingertips on his palm. Everytime Tyrell would grab his shoulders, or just try to get closer to him, Elliot wouldn't move, wouldn't even flinch. He doesn't move his hand now either. He doesn't even know why. Tyrell shot him. « You shot me, » Elliot says, again.

« I shot you, » Tyrell says. He sounds sorry, and somehow, it feels more real than when he says he is. Tyrell isn't even holding his hand, barely touching it, brushing over the skin. Elliot grabs at Tyrell's fingers with so much force they could crush, but Tyrell responds. He needs to feel, he needs know if it's real. « Can I kiss you? »

Elliot open his eyes. « What? »

Tyrell looks away. « No, » he says. « Forget it. »

 

*

 

Later, the tears come back, and Tyrell holds his hand again. That doesn't make sense, but he does, and Elliot listens at him saying things in swedish as he cries himself to sleep.

 

*

 

He dreams about Tyrell. He's standing in that road in Coney Island, facing the Ferris wheel. He's matching the atmosphere, greyish blue in a world of greyish blue, and when Elliot approaches him, he can see that the sky makes clouds appear in Tyrell's eyes.

« It's going to rain, » Tyrell says. His face looks softer, pupils not as sharp as usual, jaw and eyebrows relaxed. He's probably hiding a gun, probably going to turn into a monster, soon. He'll shoot him, kill him, devour him, and all that would be left of Elliot would be a puddle of blood and flesh and guts. The idea isn't even that repulsive, somehow. At least, this, whatever it is, would end.

But Tyrell isn't holding a gun, an doesn't turn into a monster. He looks at the sky. « I'm dead, » Elliot says.

And then he looks at him. « You're not dead, sweetheart. » Elliot cries. Tyrell holds him, something he's never done. It isn't like it always is – the usual shiver of disgust, the bitter taste on his tongue, they aren't there. He cries and for once, for fucking once, he doesn't think about a single thing. He welcomes that feeling with all his body, clings onto it with all that he has ; clings on Tyrell, his fingers sinking in his shoulders. « The dead don't dream. »

And it rains.

 

*

 

« It's going to rain, » Tyrell says.

He's sitting on the side of the bed, close to Elliot, holding his hand. Like Angela was. They're sharing heat, Tyrell's hip nearing Elliot's thigh. _He shot me_ , Elliot thinks, because there's nothing that makes sense and he just needs to hold onto something, that being Tyrell's fingers he continues to occasionally crush between his own, or the thought that _he shot me._ Mr. Robot shot him, too ; several times. In the head. He held his hand, too. And it would be easy, if he could just be that – an imaginary friend who holds your hand when you're hurt. No psychotic behaviour, no brain fucking up, no bullets in the head, in the guts. « We need to talk, » Elliot says. Mr. Robot isn't there, hasn't been for a while ; Elliot doesn't even know what that means – minutes, hours, days. Again, time is a concept. Time doesn't exist when you're swallowing pills and having your dead father as an alter ego. « What's gonna happen, now? »

Tyrell is still looking at the goddamn window. He doesn't give Elliot a look, but he frowns. Elliot tries to see the cloud in his eyes. He doesn't. « I don't know, » Tyrell says.

« Did people die?  » Elliot says.

« I don't know, » Tyrell says, and he believes him. That's the thing about doubting about everything – at the end, you desperately want to believe in something.

He would have prefered if Tyrell had knew, if the answer was no. _No, nobody die, nobody's gonna die, everything will be ok_ , but he would have had more trouble trusting him on that. He would have, in the end. He wants to believe in that, so much ; wants the world to be safe, to be saved, wants everybody to be alive. That's not how things work, he knows that. How easy would it be, if he didn't. _The reality of the naive_.

When he dreamt about the future he wanted, he saw Tyrell. It's weird, thinking about it now. Maybe was it because at the time, there was a possibility that Tyrell was dead, and that wasn't acceptable – there's still a possibility that Tyrell is dead, but it's different now, because Elliot's holding his hand and crushing his fingers and making no sense.

« I thought about what you told me,  » Tyrell tells him, later. « And I don't think it's true.  »

Elliot frowns. « What?  »

« You told me that I only knew the other you. But I've seen you – the actual _you_ , too. » _What is he trying to say?_ « You told me that I couldn't love you. But I do. I do. » When Elliot closes his eyes, he can see greyish blue clouds in Tyrell's eyes and a Ferris wheel and a future that he wanted to be good. It looks like the dream, but it doesn't look like the dream. Is he making a scene up, or did Mr. Robot decide to allow him a memory? Behind Elliot's eyelids, Tyrell cries.

And Elliot wants to believe, he wants to believe.

« Elliot?  »

He opens his eyes. « What?  »

Tyrell isn't looking at him. « Can I kiss you?  » He's looking at the window.

Elliot looks, too. The sky is greyish blue. « Ok, » he says. Tyrell is looking at him, now, eyes open wide with questions and clouds in them.

And he kisses him. Not deep, not violent, not even on the mouth, his lips brushing his cheek, tasting the salt. Elliot closes his eyes. Holding Tyrell's hand and crushing his fingers _and making no sense_. Tyrell kisses him.

And it rains.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://abelmartz.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacemartz)


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